The Anchor
by Balanced
Summary: Following their father's death, Sam tries to sort through the chaos and plant his faith in something.


**Rating:** G. No parental warnings or anything.

**Spoilers**: Series, I guess, and In My Time of Dying, and Everybody Loves a Clown.

**Warnings**: I wrote this at midnight, and didn't proofread. Was far too tired.

* * *

The room was silent as Sam's eyes searched for the familiar lines of his brother's face. For a split second he considered commenting on the darkness of the day, but he couldn't. There weren't words for the kind of sadness he was feeling, that his brother was feeling. He wondered what Dean was thinking. He wondered if he, too, was running memories through his mind, fighting back tears of wasted time. He wondered if Dean wanted to scream and cry and hit something and tear out his insides, because that's how he felt. He felt a little like dying, and the only thing from keeping him from leaving was his brother. He knew that Dean wasn't the sharing type, but he had to be there in case history meant nothing and a "chick flick" moment arose.

In the mean time he thought about his father. He wondered if John had whispered something loving to his older son, the success, the kid that had done what he'd been asked, the kid that hadn't abandoned his family for "higher education," and to his surprise, he found himself hoping so. He reflected over the various sacrifices Dean had made for the family, and decided that if something was to be said, it should go to his brother. It pained him, but that was the way of it.

But all of this was crazy thinking. Dean had said that their father hadn't said anything, and Dean, his anchor, he wouldn't _lie_. Not to Sam. The two had gotten so close that last year that his older brother wouldn't risk it by lying about something like this. _This_ was important. _This_ meant something. Yet has he looked across the room and met hazel eyes with blue, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something wrong with this picture. Since when did their father just give up? Since when did he care more about the demon than his son? He'd seemed so… Strange at the hospital, the last time Sam saw him.

If he'd been surprised by the demon, wouldn't he have yelled?

If he'd summoned him, why didn't he let Sam in on it, or Dean, once he woke up?

He ignored the sick feeling rising in his stomach as he pictured the look on his brother's face that day at the hospital.

_"How'd I ditch it?"_

He shivered, and moved his mind away from those kind of thoughts.

"I'm gonna turn in," Dean said now, rolling over on the couch, so he faced the back. He flipped off the light.

Sam smothered a sigh and laid back against the floor in Bobby's living room._ It won't be like this forever_, he told himself, shifting. No, John Winchester wouldn't be back, but he and Dean… They would make it. They would find a way.

And just like that, an idea came to him so quickly that it threw him. He and Dean. He'd always assumed that after The Demon, he would return to Stanford and try to get on with his life. But maybe-maybe that wasn't his life anymore. Maybe Dean was right-that he was, in his heart of hearts of hearts, a hunter. The idea of quitting school sickened him, but less so than it would have a year ago. And in the darkness he smiled just a bit, thinking of how pleased his father would be.

And heaven knew, Sam owed it to him. Images unbidden flashed into his mind, images of forests, and shotguns, and demons, and The Demon, and cell phones, and maps, and journals, and fake I.D.'s and "Are you okay, Sammy?"s. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and punched his pillow in frustration.

He could sleep in a car, no problem, but the floor?

And then came the thoughts of Dean.

He knew in his mind that he was pressuring his brother to a breaking point. He knew it. But he just couldn't smother the urge to worry and try to fix it. Dean's anger, though, he could deal with. It was just this strong-and-silent thing his brother had going on that was adding to his ulcer.

_"You can't bottle all your emotions, Sam," _his high school guidance councelor had told him_. "You've got to learn to deal with your feelings."_

Clearly Dean had not had the great Mr. Nordstrom.

"Dean," he said softly, his voice surprising him.

More surprising, though, was that Dean answered. "Yeah, Sammy?"

"Are we going to be okay?"

Silence, so he continued. "I know everything sucks since Dad's gone, and I know you don't want to talk about it, or anything, really. But I'm, uh," he faltered, searching for the right word. "A little worried, I guess."

"About?"

This was more conversation than he'd expected. "About… You." Dean grumbled, so Sam rushed forward. "And hunting. And us. I just didn't think there was anything we couldn't bounce back from."

"We'll bounce back, Sammy." Dean's voice was scratchy. "You've just gotta give it time."

Sam took his first easy breath in the last…How long since the hospital? "I know. I will. Night, Dean."

"Night, Sammy."

Fin.


End file.
